Those Darn Little People!

Whether you care to admit it or not, most of us have had "little people experiences." You know, the kind that just make no earthly sense. For example, you KNOW you placed the concert tickets in your wallet, but they're not there. You empty out your wallet, you search through your entire apartment, you involve your family or your roommates in your drama. All to no avail. Then you go for a bicycle ride or get a good night's sleep and when you check again, shaazam! there they are in your wallet, just where you left them. These are little people experiences.

One of my most dramatic little people experiences occurred in late 1999 in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysis. I was traveling with Titi, the daughter of my friend Truc. Titi and I had wanted to travel to Vietnam, because she speaks the language, but we could not get a ticket during the Christmas holidays, so we went to Malaysia and Thailand instead. At the time, I had not yet switched over to the insulin pump I now wear but was instead taking up to six insulin injections a day, using one-time-use disposable syringes.

Titi and I were traveling light, and I was carrying only a Jansport knapsack, the size that many junior high and high school boys use as book bags. One main zipped pouch and a small zipped pouch suitable for pens and pencils. In other words, not a lot of space and only two compartments.

My first night in Kuala Lumpur, I went through my gear, arranging things for the next morning. To my horror, I only had a few syringes, whereas I needed about 60 for my entire stay. I emptied the backpack and went through my meager possessions. Sure enough, I only had a few syringes, enough to last me through noon the next day. I paced around a bit, then again looked through my backpack. No luck. I must have repeated this exercise a half dozen times.

Finally, I figured that I was in the capital city of a nation in which many people spoke English. Surely, I would be able to talk a pharmacist into selling me syringes. This was not the end of the world. I laid down for a night of much-needed rest.

In the morning I got ready to tell Titi that sightseeing was out for the day, as we would have to go syringe-hunting. Before I did so, however, I looked in my backpack one last time. The syringes were there, at least 60 of them. Those mischievious little people really had me going! They were probably in the shadows giggling, so pleased with themselves for getting my blood pressure up.

A nextdoor neighbor, a woman who has throat cancer and must speak with the aid of a wand held to her throat, had a little people experience last week. She told me on Friday morning that she had lost her talking device and wondered if I could make a call on her behalf that afternoon. In the morning, I drove her to a longtime friend's memorial service. Around 2:30 she asked me to make the call. I made several calls, ferreting out information on how to secure a replacement device. The company was going to charge her $599 plus tax and shipping, or about $700. That was way too much for her to spend. I found a state agency that would replace it for free, but the office was only open until 6 and was located a 45-minute drive away, plus I had to write a letter describing the situation and print the letter since my neighbor does not have a printer.

During this time, my neighbor, let's call her Aggie, was hyper, distraught, and frantic. She was writing furiously on her slate with magic marker and tapping me insistently on my arm, though I had already attended to what she wanted. After an hour and a half of this frenetic behavior, I calmly told Aggie that I couldn't take any more of it, that she needed to sit down and calm down, that she needn't worry. I would cancel my 5:30 appointment, write and print the letter, get directions, and drive her to and from the state office. She'd have a new device within two hours, but she had to relax. Aggie started crying. I told her everything was going to work out fine. I'd leave and come back when I'd written the letter.

When I returned, Aggie was in much better shape. I drove her to Santa Ana, we were seen almost immediately, she got the device, the clerk helped her adjust the settings, and I drove her home. I let her out in front of her house so she wouldn't have to walk very far, and I drove to the end of the block, where there was a parking space. It's then that I saw her talking device on the passenger seat. I rang her doorbell and handed it to her. Aggie was shocked. She was holding the replacement in her hands. I said the old one must have been in her purse and slipped out on the ride home. Aggie said she'd emptied her purse and it hadn't been there. I said, "Oh, well, now you've got a backup."

But, you see, this is exactly how the little people operate. As soon as Aggie calmed down, the little people thought, "Well, we'll have a little more fun at her expense. Afterall, she was much too upset. We'll keep her device for a little while longer and then return it." The calming down and the returning of the item have never been simultaneous, at least in my experience.

But I always have to smile at these little people experiences. I get as much fun out of laughing at their trickery as they do out of laughing at my undue concern over mere material possessions! The next time you are beset by leprechauns, pixies, gnomes, faeries, or whatever you call them from wherever you're from, remember: Don't take yourself--and your things--so damn seriously!